


when the room is quiet.

by halowrites



Category: Popslash
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-07
Updated: 2011-03-07
Packaged: 2017-10-16 04:14:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/168301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halowrites/pseuds/halowrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>written for the 100 Ways challenge: my prompt was <i>groupie sex.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	when the room is quiet.

A sticky-slick LA night, and somehow you dreamed your way into this afterparty. All around you, a blurred sea of faces, a shimmering kaleidoscope of colours, tight half-smiles and sideways glances. Maybe you don’t belong here, with these people, in this world-- but then again, just maybe you do. Another swallow of the drink in your hand, just to feel the hot prickle ghost through your body, so false, so fake and so very strangely perfect.

And suddenly he’s there in front of you, that smile curving across his lips, slow and sure, and you feel a tiny curl of anticipation start unfolding in your belly. "Hey," he says, taking the glass from you at the same time as you move to put it down, his smile growing wider, pink, pink lips peeling back. _Oh, the shark has pretty teeth, dear_ , you think, and in the space of this breath and the next, you can see the next few hours unfolding in slowly-flickering frames, pause and fast-forward, colour and sound blurring together into one heartbeat. It’s in the way he looks at you. It’s in the way he _sees_ you.

You can feel his hand resting against the small of your back, warm and heavy like sin as you slip through the crowd. You’re barely aware of anyone else in the room, time slowed down to some strange, crawling thing, stretching space and sound out until there is nothing but a low and constant hum slipping along your skin.

"In here," spoken close to your ear, soft, warm breath and the curl of fingers around the jut of your hip, slipping beneath the hem of your t-shirt for the barest of moments. Your skin feels too small, drawn too tight over bones too fragile to hold you upright, white noise buzzing in your head until you’re dizzy with it. When the door to his room opens with a soft click, panic slices through you like quicksilver, slicking your tongue with metal, curling your hands into fists. If he notices, he says nothing, leaving you standing there in the middle of this thousand-dollar suite while he slips off his jacket. Thick carpet beneath your feet, and his movements around the room are silent, measured only by the flutter-quick beat of the pulse in your throat. You watch and wait, unsure of what to do, what to say —of how you even really got here.

"I’ve seen you before," he says softly, suddenly, and you jump a little, not expecting those words at all. "You’re at nearly all my shows, aren’t you?"

"yes."

"Yes." He sounds faraway, even though he’s right there. Lost inside his head and, _I could be anyone,_ you think. _I could be anyone, but I’m not._

"So you like the music, at least."

"yes." It’s all you seem to be able to say, and all you probably should say, because the next words slip out before you can stop them. "I want to be a singer, too."

He looks up at you sharply, something huge and dark flickering behind his eyes for a split-second, before it’s gone again, just as quickly. "Of course you do," he says quietly, absently, unbuttoning the cuffs of the pale silk shirt he’s wearing.

 _  
And I will be_ , you think fiercely, snapping your teeth closed, because it’s not the time or the place, and both of you are smart enough to know exactly why you’re here.

"They only love you until the lights go down," he says, unbuckling his belt, "and it’s all too easy to lose your way in the dark." He laughs then, short and sharp, no humour in the sound. "Promise me you’ll pick another career."

You don’t think it’s a question, but you nod anyway, and he smiles at you, something soft and smeary and infinitely sad, sitting on the edge of the bed, hands spread on his knees, waiting. You close your eyes for a moment, then go to him, standing awkwardly between his thighs, barely daring to breathe, until he reaches up and twists your pale, slim fingers with his own—twining them together, spanning your waist, thumbs rubbing tiny circles across the sliver of warm skin above your jeans, holding you tight.

"It’s okay," you whisper, "it’s really okay," over and over, until your heart stops stuttering in your chest, and his grip loosens enough for you to move away again, sinking slowly downwards until you feel that same thick carpet beneath your knees, nothing but his breath echoing in your head. The gentle brush of fingers against your jaw startles you, and you look up to watch him speak.

"Your name," he says, and you hear it coming from someplace else, somewhere far away in another time, "at least tell me your name."

"My name," you say softly, to nothing and no one but the ghosts in your head, each whispered word leaving a tiny smeared breath on the mirror your forehead rests against. "My name is JC."

 


End file.
